


Traturian Thaw

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: sga_flashfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-11
Updated: 2007-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon





	Traturian Thaw

John never liked the Traturians. Sure, they seemed pleasant enough, farming like it was the sweetest damn gift the universe could offer, working the land until they were uniformly broad of shoulder, men and women both, strangely beautiful in a dirt-beneath-the-fingernails, try-my-potatoes sort of way. But there was something that just didn't seem right about them, and it made John's neck itch. He'd tried to explain it to Elizabeth after the second visit, when they'd come home with four cases of mushrooms and a sampling of other produce, but "shifty" was apparently too vague an assessment to win him much more than a wry smile. So he did as he was told, made sure he had extra clips in his tac-vest every time they were sent to trade, politely demurred when he was asked to exchange weapons instruction for ten cases of the fruit Rodney was mad for, and stroked the trigger of his P-90 with studied disinterest while Teyla did double duty as stick-instructor and diplomat in turn. And if everyone eyed Ronon covetously, with a focused approval that lacked the usual off-world quotients of wariness or lust – well, John just added aching teeth to the list of gut instincts that told him the Traturians were going to be trouble before the end.

On their eleventh visit to Traturia, Teyla stopped him with a hand to his shoulder before he could stride cockily down the 'jumper's ramp and out into the planet's mid-winter snow. "Your reluctance to trust these people is damaging," she said softly. "They have done nothing to earn the wariness you communicate toward them."

John narrowed his eyes. "Oh, really," he said pleasantly.

"On previous occasions I have explained your – " she held his gaze " – terse behavior as a product of your role as guardian and warrior. They have accepted this to date, but they are far from unknown to us now. If we wish to continue to trade with these people, we must – _you_ must – "

"Hey, I'm just the grunt, right?" John said evenly. "Tell them I'm protective. Not that bright. They'll understand."

"It damages their opinion of me to think I would select one who is so untrusting as my guardian," Teyla continued. "I cannot work effectively if you continue to doubt them so openly. Ronon, myself, Dr. McKay, we have no fear of these people."

"Which is exactly why I don't plan on letting down my guard," John said slowly, voice dangerous even as he kept smiling. "I'll play my part. Don't worry."

Teyla sighed and exchanged a look of frustration with Ronon, who shook his head at John and followed Teyla down the ramp. Rodney bustled up from the cockpit, still stuffing equipment in his backpack. "We ready?" he asked cheerfully. "We're almost out of those tiny little green things they sold us – oh, oh," he snapped his fingers, "and the almond flour that we used to make those great little cookies? Man, I love this place." He grinned and strode down the ramp.

John flipped on his sunglasses and pasted a smile on his face. "You and everyone else," he murmured, and followed his team.

*****

It wasn't often that John's instincts diverged so completely from Teyla's or Ronon's, and he had to wonder, later that morning, if his problem was simply that he was bored. One of the Traturian scribes had lured Rodney away with a cache of aged astronomy documents as soon as they'd made their way to the central plaza of the city, and Ronon had spent the last four hours engaged in the particular version of silent and stoic that meant _you're an ass, don't even bother talking to me or I'll punch you in the face._ John sighed and wandered to the window that ran along one side of the council hall. It was still snowing, so thick that the outline of the library across the plaza was hard to discern, fading in and out of focus with each squall that blew. John shivered and turned back toward the gargantuan fireplace in the center of the room.

"Haven't seen snow like this since – "

Ronon stared him down.

"Okay, buddy," John sighed. "Reading you loud and clear."

When Teyla returned it was with a gaggle of Traturians – farmers, every one of them, but farmers with a taste for velvet robes and hats trimmed with fur now that the fields were dormant until spring. "We have made much progress," she said happily. "Goodrit has offered me a full tour of the winter stores so that we might better negotiate for the training and foodstuffs our peoples need." She smiled at an elderly man who stood beside her.

John managed something of a smile, nodding his acknowledgement. Goodrit's face softened, and _that_ was new.

"Colonel Sheppard," Goodrit said. "We realize these have been most trying circumstances."

John blinked. "Oh?" he said slowly.

"I leave Fashnin and Hardol to explain our gift to you, which we hope will ease your trips to us in future." Goodrit smiled. "And there will be food, of course! Our kitchens are at work and will serve you within the hour."

"Right," John said, his neck itching wildly, and he glanced at Teyla. Her fiercely reproving look made him straighten his spine. "I mean – thanks." He gestured half-heartedly. "You know."

Goodrit nodded his understanding and ushered Teyla away, the room emptying of everyone save a male and female scribe, familiar from that morning.

"You uh – " John scratched the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "A gift?"

Hardol smiled prettily. "You have been burdened these many months," she said earnestly. "We have watched and tried to fathom the reasoning but – "

Fashnin broke in. "We realize that the old ways have lapsed among you."

John narrowed his eyes and was relieved to see Ronon's hand shift gently to his gun. The 'old ways' never meant anything but trouble. "That so?"

"It must surely have been so in other times," Fashnin offered. "No civilization can flourish that is unduly burdened by the weak."

John wet his lips. "Burdened, huh?"

"The man you called McKay – he is – " Fashnin looked toward Hardol.

"Weak," she said simply, spreading her hands. "He expresses his disdain for our labors, for the task of working the soil."

John felt a slow surge of alarm. "Well, McKay is – "

"He is no warrior. He has weapons such as yours but his hands, his comfort with them – he is not . . ."

Ronon stepped closer. "Not what?" he asked.

"Useful. And so we have relieved you, surrendered him to the old ways, to the process by which he might prove his strength or give up his life to those who would better – "

John felt his gut twist. "What have you done to him?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Hardol looked startled. "The old ways," she said, as if that explained everything.

Ronon growled.

Fashnin blinked, surprised. "He is – we transported him to the plains beyond the city. There he is to make his own survival or – "

John glanced out the window. "In _this_?"

"This is the best test of a individual's heart," Fashnin offered, confused. "It is the time of year for – "

John turned to Ronon. "Go find Teyla. Bring her back to the rendezvous point."

Ronon turned on his heel and John made for the door.

"Colonel Sheppard? We have only done what is – "

John pounded out through the echoing corridors of the council hall and into the snow, across the plaza and through the narrow streets to the disused marketplace where the jumper was parked. "I swear to god if you so much as – " he threatened McKay in his absence, the jumper leaping to life beneath his hands and rising from the ground before John was fully in his seat. He focused his thoughts and the life-signs detector blinked onto the windshield, sensors sweeping out over the plains outside the city and into the forest beyond.

He tried not to think of how many hours Rodney had been gone.

*****

The puddlejumper found Rodney easily – a lone life-sign a short distance into the forest that bordered the plains, and John had never been so glad to see anything in his life as the pulsing light on the 'jumper's screen. He set the ship down as close as he could, readied his gun and switched on the flashlight as the ramp lowered. He hadn't thought to ask what the local wildlife was like – not that he cared if he wiped out the last of an endangered species of indigenous fluffy kittens; his only thought was of the cold, the snow, the wind, and the distance Rodney had slogged from where he'd been abandoned. With the ramp down, John could see fading tracks filling with fresh snow, and he set his jaw before heading for the woods, hand-held life-signs detector just below the sight-line of his gun. "Rodney?" He didn't suppose the other man could hear above the wind, but the sound of his own voice was reassuring, as was the blip on the screen that said Rodney was still alive.

It took fifteen minutes to find him – Rodney never shouted back, and John would have missed the clumsily-constructed shelter of packed snow and pine branches if the life-signs detector hadn't been in his hand, telling him to look harder at what was in front of him. He shoved the detector into a pocket, hurried as best he could and sank to his knees, peering into the crude, pitiful shelter that was all the forest could offer. "Rodney?"

Rodney stared at him, hunched, hands beneath his armpits, knees pulled up to his chest, breath huffing into uneven clouds in the freezing air. "Real?" he asked.

"Jesus, yes," John said, reaching out to grab him. "Come on, I brought the 'jumper."

Rodney whimpered. "Hard to – move," he mumbled.

"I know, I got you," John said evenly, trying to express comfort by seeming unfazed. He eased Rodney forward, draped one of Rodney's arms around his neck. "You should've made a fire."

"They took – " Rodney grunted in pain as John hauled him up to start walking. "Backpack."

John circled one arm around his waist, took his weight. "Fucking bastards," he muttered, thinking of the flashlight, the matches, the tiny tins of combustible fuel they'd found in some ancient storeroom that were now standard issue in everyone's packs. Powerbars, water, first-aid. "They hurt you?"

Rodney hmmphed and shook his head, stumbling at John's side. "Not – not unless you count . . . frostbite?"

John grimaced at the way Rodney's words slurred. "We'll be back home before you know it."

"Tried – to make shelter. . . with the snow. Keep off the wind. You – remember teaching . . . me that?"

John nodded. "You did good."

"Cold."

"I know, buddy, I know." He nodded ahead. "'Jumper, twelve o'clock."

Rodney didn't reply, but John could feel him stiffen, firm his resolve, try and aim his steps more clearly toward the waiting craft. His limbs didn't seem wholly under his control, and he wasn't shivering – all bad signs, John knew, but five more minutes and he could do something about it. Fucking Traturians.

With a sharp thought John lowered the ramp to the 'jumper, helped Rodney inside and set him on the bench. Another thought had the hatch closing; another turned up the heat, and John reached for the zipper on Rodney's jacket, tugging it down and reaching to pull the sodden fabric away.

"No, no," Rodney protested, fumbling with disobedient hands, still encased in frozen gloves. "Cold."

"We've been through this before, remember?" John said quietly, not averse to using his weight and training to get this done if he had to. "It'll get worse if these don't come off."

Rodney shook his head as John stripped the gloves and the jacket from his body and threw them aside. "Can't – be warm – naked."

"Then clearly you've been doing all the wrong things," John said, trying to distract him.

It seemed to work. Rodney blinked as John unfastened the buttons on his shirt and skinned it away. "Wrong?" He blinked again, then blushed furiously, batting at John's hands with greater distress if not coordination. "Hu-mili . ."

"Rodney." John caught his wrists and held them firm in his own. " _Rodney_. Listen to me."

"Do – plenty of . . in the – "

"You need to be dry and warm, fast, you hear me? Stop fighting."

Rodney's chin tilted. "Patronizing. Me."

"No, buddy, I'm not," John said, unfastening Rodney's belt, stooping to unlace his boots and slide them off. "Hell, undressing you's been a fantasy of mine for a long time, you're just giving me a gift."

Rodney made a small choking noise that swiftly morphed into a long bout of coughing – enough of a distraction that John could manhandle him out of his pants and shorts, strip him of his t-shirt. He reached for a blanket and shook it out, draping it like a hood over Rodney's head and wrapping it tightly around his frame; reached for another and wound it around his legs. "Lie down," he said, prodding and poking until Rodney complied, curling up on the bench. John ripped open the first aid case and pulled out a small silver pack – an emergency blanket he ripped open with his teeth, unfolded and packed around Rodney's huddled form. "I'm flying us back, okay?" John said, hand to Rodney's face.

"Flying," Rodney nodded, blinking sluggishly, and John grit his teeth, threw himself back in the pilot's chair and headed back to the city, trying not to listen to Rodney's pained whimpers as feeling crept back into his blistered fingers and toes.

*****

"You were right," Ronon said, standing in the infirmary, just shy of the curtain shielding Rodney's bed from their view.

John glanced at him. "It's not like I knew they were planning to throw him out the back of a wagon."

"No, but you cautioned us," Teyla offered "We did not heed you."

"Yeah, well. I'm gonna milk that for all it's worth," John shrugged. "For the rest of your lives." Teyla managed a glimmer of a smile. Ronon snorted. John merely straightened as Carson came out from behind the curtains. "Doc?"

"He's fine," Carson said, pulling off his gloves. "Or at least he will be. You did the all the right things and got him home."

"May we see him?" Teyla asked.

"Aye – 'though he's bloody tired. Not all at once?"

John tilted his head, gesturing for them to go first. "No damage? Really?" he asked Carson once they were gone.

"Minor frostbite to his fingers and toes, nothing that won't heal. Be bloody painful for a wee bit, but – " Carson paused. "Considering the alternative."

"I'd rather not." John set his jaw against the image of Rodney crouched in his make-shift shelter, slowly but surely freezing to death. "He started bitching at the nurses yet?"

"Not yet," Carson said, smiling at the thought of the familiar gauge to Rodney's temper. "Give him a couple of hours."

"Yeah. Thanks." John looked over at the bed as Teyla pushed the curtains aside

"He asks for you," she said, Ronon following her.

John pulled in a long breath. "Yeah. Go get some food."

Ronon quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not eating anything from that place."

"So go see if there's mac and cheese," John said patiently. "Having one of my team members down is one too many, don't make me come after you."

Teyla smirked. "You would force us?" she said, one eyebrow raised.

"Damn straight."

Ronon grinned. "You're funny."

"I'm a riot," John said, waving them away, crossing to slip behind the curtains around Rodney's bed. "Hey."

Rodney opened his eyes a fraction. He was an indistinct bundle, buried beneath blankets, nose and cheeks bright pink. "Hey."

"So. You're gonna be fine."

Rodney nodded, eyes falling closed again. "Hmmm."

John leaned a hip against the rail on the bed. "How you feeling?"

"Warmer." Rodney wet his lips. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Coming – to find me."

John shifted uncomfortably. "What else would I do?"

"Just saying."

"Yeah, well, how about you say something that's not stupid?"

Rodney smiled weakly. "S'your job."

"Stupid is?" John asked, folding his arms and tucking his hands beneath his armpits in an unconscious mimicry of Rodney's earlier defense against the cold.

"No – meant – "

"I know." He studied Rodney's tired face for a moment. "I didn't – " He grimaced at the IV bag beside Rodney's bed. "It wasn't because of my job that – "

Rodney blinked, opened his eyes a little and seemed to be trying to focus on John's face. "You're – "

"Hmmm?"

"Huh," Rodney sighed, and his mouth stayed open just a little as he fell asleep.

*****

Things had a nails-down-a-chalkboard habit of getting right back to normal when disaster was averted in the Pegasus galaxy, and six days after he'd brought Rodney back, John heard second- (then third-) hand accounts of Rodney firing two scientists and trying to fire a linguist who reported to Weir. He smiled as he chewed on a powerbar – the Traturians had sent cases of food as an apology, but to John it might as well have been fourteen crates of the plague – and finished typing up notes on new design schematics for souped-up jumpers that would fly a lot damn faster than they had before. With a careless flick of a finger he sent the whole thing to Rodney, pulled up a file of mission reports on his tablet, and started to approve them all without reading a single one. A reply to the jumper plans came back in under an hour, with a reassuring number of comments written in large red font under his own, all of which lambasted his intelligence, his manhood, and once or twice, the way he smelled. John grinned after counting fourteen 'moron!'s by the seventh paragraph and signed off on his own report of SGA1's eleventh mission to Traturia. He looked at the document, changed the font size and color, and wrote 'I TOLD YOU SO' in large purple letters across the top of the page.

It felt good to have things slide back into a familiar rhythm of insult, training, sparring, and paperwork – which was why, John reckoned, it took him by surprise to have Rodney show up at his door two nights later, soaked to the skin and shivering with cold, science-blue shirt clinging fast to his body. He might have thought he was hallucinating, seeing images of what was or might have been, but Rodney pushed past him, stepped into his quarters and began to pace, and okay, snow-bound Rodney hadn't ever done that.

"I think – I think I might – " Rodney's shoulders were hunched, his body trying to reserve what body heat it could.

John approached him slowly, as though he might startle him – for a second he was glad his feet were bare and made no sound against the floor. "You okay?"

"No! No, _clearly_ I am not okay!" Rodney exploded. "Do I look okay? I just spent twenty minutes standing on a balcony in the worst damn rainstorm we've had in weeks – who does that? Why would I – " He swallowed and spun a finger in the air. "But I just wanted to see if it would make a difference. If I could tell."

"Tell what?"

"Tell the difference. I've been – " Rodney shivered hard.

John frowned. "Lemme get you a towel."

"No, no it's okay, I'll go in a second, I just – I've been cold since we came back, you know?" He paced a five foot span at the foot of John's bed, back and forth, back and forth. "Cold all the time. Doesn't matter how many layers I wear, what the environmental controls say, what the weather's like outside – I'm always . . . " Rodney swallowed, seemed to shake himself. "So I thought I'd gather data. Discern the – " Another haphazard gesture. "When it started to rain it was the perfect opportunity, a chance to see if my body could tell the difference between – "

"Rodney."

"So I – I'm cold now. And it's different, different than the cold before, and I have no idea what that means." Rodney looked at him, expression carrying a shade of pleading that made John's gut twist.

John held his gaze for a long, still moment; made a decision. "First, you need to get out of those wet clothes," he said.

"Oh – " Rodney looked down at himself. "Oh – I can . . . just – I can go."

"Rodney."

Rodney looked up, eyes wide, blank, confused. "Huh?"

"We've done this before." He stepped forward, inched his fingers under the hem of Rodney's sodden shirt, felt Rodney shiver.

"I – " Rodney let him strip the shirt from his body. "We have?"

"You're freezing," John said evenly, bending to unfasten the laces on Rodney's boots. "You'll only get colder in wet clothes. Hypothermia 101."

"I don't have hypo – "

"No, and you're not _getting_ hypothermia," John broke in. "Once is enough."

"Twice." Rodney steadied himself with a hand on John's shoulder as John eased off his boots. "Jumper – the . . . the water."

"Yeah, see? You're over your quota, buddy."

"Right. I'm using up someone else's turn."

The feeble attempt at sarcasm was cheering. "Exactly." John peeled off Rodney's socks, stood up, began unbuckling his belt.

"Sheppard – " Rodney was watching John's fingers work, shivering still, water caught on the ends of his eyelashes, running down his temple. "What are we – "

"Fantasy of mine," John whispered.

Rodney blinked, looked up, utterly lost for words, and John had always wondered what Rodney's breath would feel like, absent of invective and wandering genius, so he bent his head, leaned in, stole the taste of rainwater from Rodney's lips and licked his way into his mouth, found all the heat that Rodney had misplaced.

"Oh," Rodney breathed, fingers curling tight in John's shirt. "Oh. I wasn't expecting – "

And John was forced to shut him up, kiss him hard and meaningful, take a moment to strip off his own shirt and press back against Rodney, skin to skin, offer his body's warmth. He shed his track pants, shuffled Rodney to the bed, years-old instructions about hypothermia running through his mind. "Insulate the person's body from the ground," he whispered, easing Rodney back against the mattress, skimming hot, restless kisses along his jaw.

"Share body heat," Rodney offered, hands shaking, closing his eyes and gasping when John sucked gently at the base of his throat.

John smiled, teeth grazing Rodney's collarbone. "Apply warmth to neck, to chest and – "

Rodney swallowed hard, blinking, pupils blown wide. "The groin," he finished, holding John's gaze for a long, trembling moment before he shifted his legs, let his thighs fall apart, let John sink between them and press in close.

Things grew indistinct. The shift of a hand, the graze of someone's fingers, the heat of a tongue, the shivers of pleasure that raced up John's spine lost their usual form and slid into abstraction – heat, want, affection, need. There was comfort in the bump of their elbows, the clumsy collision of unfamiliar knees, the warmth in their kisses, the drag of tired bodies slick with sweat. John rocked against Rodney, each slide of skin broken by the rough scrape of hair, the twitch of Rodney's muscles, the strength in his thighs when he bent his knees, held John tight between them, curved one hand at the back of his neck and dragged him into a kiss. When he came it was with a soft, broken cry that he tried to smother against the curve of John's shoulder, and all John could think as he thrust against the damp heat of Rodney's belly was that he hoped to god he wasn't cold anymore.

When he was half-sure he could move his limbs again without risk of taking out an eye, John reached for his t-shirt and made a desultory effort to clean them up. He slid to rest on his side, one leg still hooked over Rodney's. "Blankets," he gruffed.

Rodney blinked and grumbled, but shifted himself until they could crawl under the blue covers of John's small bed. He wet his lips, frowning as he watched John settle. "That – " he said.

John arched an eyebrow.

"Where did they teach you first aid?" Rodney asked, and his face split into a hopeless a grin as John scowled and grabbed the pillow from under Rodney's head, batted him and his laughter. When John's dignity was restored – at the expense of Rodney's own, not to mention Rodney's hair – he slumped in a contented heap, smiling softly, eyes falling closed. Rodney curled a hand around the back of his neck again, grazed his fingertips through short, dark hair, and John stretched happily, humming a quiet murmur of satisfaction.

"Warm enough?" Rodney asked.

John lazily opened one eye. "Funny guy," he mumbled, instincts resting easy in the curve of his hand as he rolled in close to kiss the last, lingering wash of disbelief from Rodney's new-thawed lips.


End file.
